


In Which Sherlock Catfishes, Orgasms Are Faked, and John Watson Finally Gets Some

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Meeting, First Time, Fluff, How many tropes can I fit into one fic? Let's find out!, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Online Dating, Romance, Sherlock being a bit not good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I weighed the odds of you hitting me versus you being intrigued by the offer and from what I knew of you, the likelihood of hitting me was slim.” Sherlock glanced down at John’s curled fist. “Though I may have miscalculated.”</p><p>“You may have?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catfishing 101

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the AD folks who beta'd this fic!

Online dating wasn’t turning out as he had hoped.

Okay, so John hadn’t had a whole lot of hope to begin with, but Emily had looked promising: leggy, blonde, fit, and, most importantly, a woman.

The man who had just dropped into the seat across from him was none of those things. Well, he was leggy. He seemed to be nearly all legs. But he was most definitely a he. (Nevermind that he was also rather fit looking-- Christ, what kind of waist is that for a man to have? He looked like he was built for dancing and John hadn’t been dancing in years and why was that even something he was thinking about?)

John shook his head. “Sorry, but do I know you?”

The man smiled and tugged at his scarf. “No, but you are here for me.”

“No, I’m really not. Look, if you could shove off, I am waiting on someone.” The paper coffee cup in his hand wobbled. He sucked in his cheeks and fought the urge to still the tremor with his off hand. It wouldn’t do any good.

“Ah, I see. Well, I suppose I couldn’t expect you to be perfect, but I was hoping for a bit more intelligence from a former military doctor.”

The coffee sloshed onto his hand. John hissed. “Shit.” Before he could reach for them, the man handed him a wad of napkins. John had half of a mind to dump the remainder in this arsehole’s lap. He dabbed at his skin and tried to clean up the mess on the cuff of his shirt. “All right, fine. You obviously know who I am. So who the bloody hell are you?”

“Emily.”

“Go on, pull the other one.” John threw the wad of soggy napkins onto the table.

“No, really. Well, the picture was borrowed-- haven’t the faintest idea who it is-- but Emily is my account and I set up the date.” He rested his elbows on the table and grinned a little too widely. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“So this is a joke? You’re having me on.” Barely suppressing a sigh of frustration, John bent to pick up his cane. He didn’t know this man from Adam and if this should turn into something a bit more sinister than a joke, John still knew how to throw a punch. The cane was a handy weapon, too.

“Not a joke and please stop assuming I am a serial killer or whatever it is your brain has cooked up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I arranged this meeting in a public place. If I wanted to murder you, I certainly wouldn’t have picked a coffee shop. Dull. No, I sent you the invite because you seemed the best fit for what I need.”

“Which is?” John tightened his grip on his cane.

“A date.”

There was a pause. A rather pregnant pause that left John wondering if perhaps he was in fact hearing things. He turned the word over in his head, his brow wrinkling as he tried to make sense of it. A tingle ran up his arm. He hadn’t mentioned the military service on his profile and yet somehow this stranger knew. He grit his teeth and gave a quick glance to the exit. “So, let me get this straight--”

“Yes.”

“You stalked me--”

“Well, stalked is a rather harsh word--”

“You bloody well stalked me on a dating site.” John resisted the urge to drive his finger into the other man’s chest. “You stalked me, lied to me,  and now you are asking me out on a date.”

“Um, yes. In fact. A date.” Sherlock straightened the lapels of his jacket and jutted out his chin, as if daring John to take a swing.

John scrubbed his face with his hand. “Why on earth would you think that that is an acceptable way of asking someone out?”

“I weighed the odds of you hitting me versus you being intrigued by the offer and from what I knew of you, the likelihood of hitting me was slim.” Sherlock glanced down at John’s curled fist. “Though I may have miscalculated.”

“You may have?”

“Mike Stamford assured me that you were a man of honor and quite capable. As well as able to handle a good deal of stupidity, so I don’t have to.”

“Mike Stamford? Mike ‘I went to Barts with and saw just the other day’ Stamford? Are you stalking him too?” John stood quickly from the table. “Bloody hell, you are a madman.” He quick-marched out of the shop and did his best to ignore Sherlock shadowing him. The door failed to slam properly behind him, denying John the satisfaction of nailing the weirdo behind him.

“John, wait!” Sherlock ducked around a customer who tried to enter just as Sherlock was exiting. Things had not gone as he had hoped. Perhaps he should have led with the entire proposal? Sherlock hurried after him. The quick slap of his shoes on the pavement punctuated his ever increasing agitation. “John, please. You are being absolutely ridiculous. If you would just listen for five minutes--”

John stopped short and turned around. He marched back towards Sherlock, grip sure on his cane. “Fine. All right. We’ll do it your way. You have one minute." 

“My way would be five minutes--”

“Wasting time.” John looked pointedly at his watch.

With a huff, Sherlock gestured wildly. “I am in need of a date-- not even a real one-- and we are suited to each other, which will make the week go much faster than if I were to spend it with someone I couldn’t stand.”

“What do you mean ‘not even a real date’? And what the hell are you implying? I’m not suited to you. I was bloody well suited to _Emily_.”

“Who is me.” Sherlock grinned.

John gaped. “With a few major differences.”

“Please don’t be dull. You were interested in me before you ever saw a picture. You liked that I was intelligent, you liked that I could talk circles around you, and you liked the thought of me being musically talented. Usually you prefer dark haired people, which I didn’t plan for or I would have chosen a different picture, but I suppose it worked out for me in the end.” Sherlock waved his hand. “Everything else is just window dressing.”

“And the date bit?”

“Ah. Well, I am currently on a case and I need a cover story. It would have been easier to pick someone I already know, but the list was quite short. Stamford mentioned that you were alone in London and in need of a place to stay as well as more cash than what your army pension provides.” 

“Mike told you my life story?” John’s cheek twitched.

“Well, I inferred a bit. I saw that he was troubled when he returned from his coffee break. Given that he is usually jovial to the point of being annoying, I deduced that something had happened while he was out. He had left his phone behind at the lab, so obviously it wasn’t his wife calling him. No, he ran into someone. Someone he cared for and had learned something worrying about. A few questions and he told me about you. The bit about the army and being in need of cash I gathered from your drinking the cheapest cup of coffee on the menu, as well as the cheap haircut and the chair you chose in the coffee shop.”

“The chair?” John decided to ignore the jab about his haircut. It was a proper cut, no nonsense and easy to deal with. Given the amount of curls and the way Sherlock was dressed, he obviously wouldn’t know a thing about simplicity.

“Hm, yes. Picking the chair closest to the exit while still having your back to the wall? Screams of military service.”

“Could have just been paranoid.”

“Not in combination with the tan line on your wrist and the way you sit. Ramrod straight, as if you are expecting to be called to task at any moment? No, you were definitely military. You didn’t mention it on your profile, which suggests to me that you aren’t one for bragging, despite probably being a decorated soldier.” Sherlock drew a deep breath, trying to decide if he should continue. Victor had always insisted that he be nice to strangers, but Victor wasn’t around anymore. Ah well, he had already begun, might as well finish. It wasn’t as if he could make John any madder. “No, definitely not ashamed of your time in the service, but the limp tells me the circumstances of your injury left you feeling impotent.”

John choked on the pocket of rage bubbling up in his throat. “Pardon?”

“Not literally.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am sure you are quite competent in bed, given the amount of lip licking you--”

“Shut it. Right now."

Sherlock’s mouth closed with a snap and he took a cautious step back from John.

“Right. So.” John cleared his throat. “Right, so that was spot on. Not the bit about the leg.” He held up a finger when Sherlock’s mouth opened again to speak. “No talking. My turn. That was brilliant, in a way, and also absolutely terrifying. I have no idea how much of it you figured out or how long you’ve been doing this stalking business. So, you can just bugger off.” John quickly turned once more and walked away, not giving himself the chance to linger on the way Sherlock’s eyes looked in the weak winter sunlight or the way his face had fallen.

 

* * *

 

John really, really hated his flat. Flat was an overstatement; shoebox, maybe closet-- on a good day-- would be a more accurate description. He was lucky to have it, though. Too many soldiers came back home and simply fell between the cracks. Even he felt, right now, a bit like he was clinging to the edge with both fingers. Sherlock had rattled him; no one should be able to tell that much about someone with just a glance, not to even mention the stalking. Despite his better judgment, John also found him intriguing. Bit like a puzzle. Obviously, he had no common sense to speak of, but John supposed that was true of most genius types: all talk and bluster, but couldn’t tell their arsehole from a hole in the ground.

Still…It was impossible that Sherlock had learned all of that from Mike. John hadn’t spoken of what happened to him over there, hadn’t mentioned to Mike what it felt like to be shot. He hadn’t even told his therapist what went through his mind as he watched a young man die next to him, unable to help him because John was too busy dying himself.

John shook off the unwanted thoughts and scooped up his laptop. If Sherlock could do a bit of snooping, then John could too. It was only fair. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for; after all Sherlock Holmes was an odd name. A quick scroll and John found himself falling further down the rabbit hole. Sherlock’s life was something out of pulp fiction. His website was dull (surprising given how over-the-top he had been in person), but there were a lot of interesting comments on his various articles. Stolen paintings, kidnappings, lost loves-- ninjas? Good lord, what kind of life did this man lead? In the right circles, Sherlock seemed to have made quite the name for himself, and yet there was barely any mention of him at all in the papers. If he was as good at solving cases as these people boasted, there was almost no evidence of it.

John pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. He hadn’t found much use for the thing, but Mike had said to give him a call if John needed anything. His stomach rumbled. It couldn’t hurt to grab a quick bite with him, maybe grill him a bit on what he had told Sherlock. He thumbed through his contacts (ridiculously short) and hit the correct number.

“Yeah, Mike. John Watson. Mind meeting up for a drink?”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slammed the door in frustration and stomped up the stairs. He would never understand  _people_.

Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of 221A, dish cloth in hand. “Sherlock! You watch all the banging and stomping around. You break that door again and it’s coming out of your rent, young man.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Would hate for the door to be broken. All of London could get in.” He jerked at his coat. His arms tangled in it for a moment and he gave a frustrated shout, before finally freeing himself. He tossed his coat down the stairs, barely missing Mrs. Hudson. With a huff, she ducked into her flat.

He had expected more out of John Watson. Stamford had insisted that he was a reliable man and quite capable. Granted, he could have found a different way to find out more about the man. Perhaps he could have had Stamford introduce him? No, that would have resulted in pleasantries-- hello, how do you do, oh just fine, thanks. Ugh, horrible. This way they had both laid their cards on the table. He hadn’t expected John to react the way he did, but if John Watson couldn’t handle a Sherlock rather than an Emily, he certainly wouldn’t be able to handle the rest of Sherlock’s life.

His mobile chirped with a text message.

_Sweetheart, what’s the word?_

_Is your young man coming?_

_Tell him he has to come after all we’ve heard about him._

A text from his mother. Well, now he was most definitely in a mood. He pocketed his phone, not bothering to reply. Besides, what would he say? He couldn’t get out of the coming celebrations, not after all of the hullabaloo his parents were making about their upcoming wedding anniversary. An entire week! Christ, he was going to go mad.

He tugged on his hair and spun in place in his living room. His phone gave another chirp.

_And, of course, you will be coming. Your father misses you._

The plastic under his fingers creaked in protest as he tried to keep from flinging it across the room. With far more patience than he felt, he carefully typed out a reply.

_John and I have broken up._

He quickly shut off his phone before he became inundated with texts from both of his parents. More outpouring of emotion than he could handle for one day. Besides, it wasn’t as though he and John had ever actually gone out. It was just an exchange of messages online.

Though he had looked forward to John’s messages.There had been an ease to their conversation that Sherlock had never experienced before, not even when he and Mycroft were still children. He hadn’t expected the army doctor to be as interesting as he was, but something about him, perhaps the confidence of his speech even when Sherlock could tell a dark depression followed the man around, had captured Sherlock’s attention. Laced through every message, tucked inside every phrase, were hints of who John actually was. Sherlock found John was not a man to be taken at face value.

Sherlock’s stomach fluttered. He placed a hand on it as if he could convince himself through touch alone that he would not be a head-over-heels teenager. John’s face had been fascinating to study, that was all. His micro-expressions nearly shouted at Sherlock: a confused crease of the skin around his eyes, a frustrated puckering of his lips, an angry twitch of his nose. Each and every one demanded an entire monograph.

Obviously, he should have eaten earlier. He wouldn’t be thinking such things if he hadn’t skipped the last… four meals. Small wonder he was obsessing. No, a meal, then bed and in the morning, he would pester Lestrade for a case and forget the whole mess.

He snatched up a dinner roll from Mrs. Hudson’s last attempt to get him to eat something. It was stale and crunched under his teeth, but it would suffice until he could order something. As he reached for his disorganized stack of menus, the doorbell rang. He paid it no mind. He wasn’t expecting any guests. He shoved another dinner roll in his mouth, coughing a bit around his mouthful. Fumbling for a glass of water, he failed to hear the door open. He spun around at the sound of someone entering his flat.

John stood just on the threshold of the kitchen, shoulders straight, stance wide. He gave Sherlock a flat smile and rapped the tip of his cane on the floor. “Right then. What was that about a case?”

Sherlock choked.

 


	2. How to Get Away with Murdering Your (Fake) Boyfriend

Sherlock was learning many new things about John. For example, he was actually a very good doctor and handled pressure well.

Which was important right now as Sherlock was choking on a bit of bread. The humiliation: the most brilliant mind of the modern age finally taken down by soggy crust. _Baker Street Detective Done in By Dough. Boffin Defeated By Muffin. Pain in Panis: Provender Plucks Private’s Life._ Good lord, the papers would have a field day.

Of course, these thoughts would come later, when he was trying to hide the fact that he had just thought of John in military uniform. What immediately followed the treacherous food getting firmly lodged in his windpipe was:

_Flail. Flail. John. Dark spots. Strong arms. Ow. Ribs. Air._

He would later return to the feel of John’s arms wrapped around him and squeezing. Despite his prolonged illness and recovery, John was still strong. Muscle corded under Sherlock’s fingertips as he placed his hand on John’s arm for balance. He fit rather well there, nestled against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock shivered at the feel of John’s solid chest and the bite of cold still lingering on his skin and clothes. He covered his moment of weakness with a well-placed cough. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be the last time they embraced and perhaps next time he would actually be facing John.

“Christ, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?” John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s arm and guided him to a stool.

Sherlock croaked.

“No talking. Just sit there and breathe. Where do you keep the damned glasses?”

Sherlock opened his mouth only to be told to shut up again. Another thing he was learning about John: he was much more demanding in person, which was considerably different from his flirtatious online demeanor. This new, demanding John brought to mind John in military garb, uniform crisp and boots shined just so. He briefly considered if there was a version of John that was both capable of flirting and giving orders. Sherlock stared down at his lap.

Ah, there were the headlines. Surely there was an appropriate word for bread that began with ‘p’ that didn’t bring to mind _penis_.

“Do you have any dishes at all? How the hell do you get anything done?” John snapped open a cupboard and froze. “Are those…?”

Ah, yes. The toes. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of those before the mold had started to cover them. Sherlock stood, wobbled for a moment, then slunk over next to John. The toes had been in there for some time, long enough now that Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he was looking at toes. Or at least, not just at toes. It was a pity he hadn’t thought to set up a camera to record their decomposition.

“ _Mr. Holmes_ \--”

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock was proud of the fact that he didn’t entirely sound like a toad mid-Shakespearean death scene.

“Mr. Holmes, why are there toes in your cupboard?” John stared at the toes and tried not to imagine that the toes were looking back at him.

“Obvious. The crisper was entirely too full.”

“Of?”

“The rest of the feet, of course.” Hadn’t there been a full set of toes in the dish? Best not to mention to John that there might be a rat about with its own collection of human toes.

“Right. Of course. Where else would you keep them?” John nodded. “Bye.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice cracked. God, this was an embarrassment of...embarrassment. The only way it could get worse was if he happened to be naked. Wait, would that help? No, he needed to focus.

“Toes, Sherlock! Toes.” John gestured wildly with his cane. Sherlock allowed himself a brief taste of victory at getting John to use his first name, but quickly quashed it as John was presenting him with a wealth of new information. This wasn’t John angry; this was John exasperated. Exasperated was far better than angry.

“Yes, John. Toes. How are toes any worse than anything else you have found out about me thus far?” Perhaps reminding him of the stalking wasn’t the best idea, but at least it would get John to stay and maybe yell a little more.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He counted to ten. And then again. Sherlock held back the urge to tell him to fire his therapist as the counting was just making John even more angry. “Whose toes are they?”

“Haven’t the faintest. Molly gave them to me.”

“And Molly is an axe murderer as well?” John finally opened his eyes, though he looked as if he was ready to close them and count to a hundred if the need arose.

“No, I would have deduced that.” He cleared his throat and winced.

John sighed and waved him over. “Come here.”  When Sherlock hesitated, John walked over to him, propping his cane against a nearby chair. “Just want to check and make sure you didn’t do anything worse to yourself.” He slowly slid his hands around Sherlock throat, gently feeling and encouraging him to swallow. Sherlock popped his mouth open at John’s command and leaned forward so John could see without having to stand on his tiptoes.

Sherlock’s nerves fired away with a million deductions. John still took good care of his hands, rubbing lotion on them to counteract all the scrubbing he had done as a doctor, but the callouses along the web between his thumb and finger told a different story. John knew how to handle a gun, though Sherlock could feel the faint scarring there that showed John had not been a great shot at first. It was common for first time shooters to hold the gun incorrectly and catch their skin on the slide.

“Well, not seeing anything permanent. Throat will probably be a little sore. Sorry I was a bit rough with you. Ribs okay?”

If he said no, would that mean John would touch him some more? He hesitated, then slowly nodded. It wouldn’t do to play this out for too long. John would eventually catch on.

“Right. Now we are going to sit quietly and you are going to try not to do anything insane for five minutes and then you are going to tell me about this case.” John eased himself into the chair and straightened his leg.

Suddenly feeling bereft, Sherlock alighted on his own chair. He started to pull his legs up but then thought better of it. He shifted. The leather squeaked under him. He shifted again.  “What changed your mind?”

“Who said I did?” John rubbed a tired hand across his brow at Sherlock’s pointed look. “Fine. I did change my mind. Decided to figure out what exactly Mike had told you.”

“And?”

“He said you were absolutely mad, terrifyingly brilliant, and a downright tosser.”

“Ah.” The chair squeaked under him again. He was going to burn it along with the rest of the flat. Hateful thing. Right after John left, he would take a knife to it so it never uttered a squeak again. Maybe he would try acid on it at some point.

“But he also said you were lonely and could probably use a friend.” John directed a soft half-smile at him.

Sherlock scoffed. He huffed. He squared his shoulders at the outright nerve of anyone considering him _lonely_. He wasn’t lonely. He had plenty of books and his violin. The skull wasn’t the best conversationalist, but it was quiet when he needed silence. “I don’t need a friend.”

“Right. But you need a fake boyfriend for a case? Didn’t have anyone to ask except a stranger?” John shook his head. “Not fooling anyone there.” He held up his hand when Sherlock bristled once more. “I’m not saying I won’t help you. Just expect a bit more honesty. If this is something dangerous, I need to know I can trust you to have my back.”

Sherlock nodded. “Fine. Complete honesty.” At least when it mattered.

“Good, now about that case?”

Sherlock leapt from his chair and grabbed a folder. “Barbara Simmons. Age sixty-five. In the past ten years, she has had three husbands, all of whom have met unfortunate ends. The first went on a business trip, only to wrap his car around a tree on the way home from the airport. The second popped out for a smoke one night and had an unfortunate fall down the stairs. And the third dropped dead in the middle of supper two months ago. Heart attack, according to the coroner.”

John took the folder from him and flipped through the pictures. Simmons was a handsome woman, a mix of good solid stock and regal upbringing. He imagined she was the type to hunt on the weekends in her nice leather boots and then return home and host a large get-together. Probably fond of her terror of a dog, which was almost certainly named Princess. “You think it was something else?”

“Simmons is accustomed to a certain life-style. Her family used to own a great deal of land before they fell on hard times. She married late in life as she had no interest in children. Since then, every man she has married has been wealthy and has left everything to her upon their death. Yes, I think it was something else.” Sherlock grinned.

“Bit obvious, isn’t it? I mean, one husband is unfortunate. Two is a bit suspicious. Three is a pattern. She had to have been questioned or at least people have to be talking.”

“Oh, yes. And she completely checks out. Alibi is clean. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere near her husbands when they died. Either she was at an event where she was seen by plenty of people or she was out of town. In fact, each man was completely alone when he  died. There has been talk in the nearby village of a curse.” Sherlock waved his hand in disgust. “Absolute rubbish, but something is going on and I intend to find out what.”

John waved the file before tossing it onto the table. “And where exactly do I fit into all of this?”

“The Simmons family estate was turned into a bed and breakfast as a way to generate much-needed income. When she married her last husband, she moved into his home. Since his death, she has returned to the family estate and lives on the premises. Apparently, she is in mourning.” He rolled his eyes at the thought of such ridiculous sentiment. “Luckily, the bed and breakfast is located within walking distance of the home she and her late husband occupied. We will be able to observe her and do some snooping about.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you need a date.”

Sherlock tugged on his sleeves and fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. “Ah. Well, a single man would draw attention.”

“More than a gay couple?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be tedious, John.” Sherlock studied his shoes. He would definitely need to give them a shine before the trip.

“Honesty, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled. “Simmons has a type.”

“A type?”

“Younger than she, blond, fit, and, most importantly, taken.” Sherlock continued to stare at his shoes. It wasn’t a complete lie. All of Simmons’ husbands had been younger and blond. She liked her men competent, but also willing to bend at her command. As for the taken part, well, what John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “She has more sense than to seduce a man who is categorically uninterested in women, but a bisexual man with a male partner would appear to her as an appealing sort of challenge.”

“Oh.”

 

* * *

 

John went over the case in his head and tried to ignore how close Sherlock was sitting. He tugged on his shirt collar and once again regretted not picking another color.

“Relax.”

“You relax.” John pulled at a loose thread. God, he felt shabby sitting next to Sherlock. It didn’t help that the pictures of this bed and breakfast revealed it to be a manor. He had been imagining a farm house, large enough to accommodate several people, but still homey in its own way. This place had a chandelier in the foyer and a large barn that had been converted into a garage to house the guests’ cars. There were even servants’ quarters. Christ, he had never been in a place this nice before except on a guided tour. Not that long ago, a room that was quiet enough that he didn’t wake up to gunfire every five minutes sounded nice. This was _posh_ and John Watson was not posh. How did Sherlock afford a place like this? Come to think of it, he didn’t even know who was paying Sherlock to investigate this case.

The cab pulled to a stop, and John fiddled with his tie for the fifth time since getting off the train earlier. He finally forced himself to look out the window, past Sherlock’s frankly ridiculous profile. There it was: enormous, sprawling, and probably brimming with bits and bobs that were each worth more than his entire wardrobe. A battlefield hospital felt more welcoming than this.

 _Pluck up your courage, Watson. At least no one will be shooting you here_.

It was going to be just like any other mission. Get in, assess the situation, handle the problem, and get out. Maybe they wouldn’t even have to stay the entire week.

He slid out of the back seat and moved to grab his bags from the boot, only to have someone rush up and grab them out of his hands. “I’ve got that for you, sir. Part of the Holmes’ party, I take it? Don’t you worry. We’ll get you nice and settled in.”

“Wait. That’s not necessary; I can manage on my--.” The bellhop scurried away with his bags before John could attempt to snatch them back. John bristled. He didn’t need help and he certainly didn’t like someone he didn’t know touching his things. Hopefully they wouldn’t try to put anything away.

“Sherlock!” An older woman waved from the porch. “Don’t just stand there. Come up and let me have a look at him.”

Sherlock stiffened next to him, then grabbed his hand. Apparently, they were starting the whole dating business before they had even been shown to their rooms. Sherlock’s hand nearly swallowed John’s own. He hadn’t held a man’s hand in ages and he had forgotten how different it felt than holding a woman’s. John gave Sherlock’s arm a tug, as he seemed to be frozen in place. Together, they moved up to the porch. Before they even got within arms’ distance of the woman, John could already tell he was being glared at. Her gaze was nearly as piercing as Sherlock’s. Come to think of it, their eyes were a lot alike, too.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young man? Upsetting my boy just before going on holiday. When I heard that you broke up, I nearly drove to London myself and done something truly monstrous.”

 _That little shit._ John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, while still smiling at the woman before him.

Sherlock winced. “Mummy, please. John and I simply had a misunderstanding.”

“Yes, a misunderstanding.” He squeezed harder. Sherlock squeezed back. For a moment, they engaged in a battle of wills, each refusing to back down and each refusing to stop crushing the other’s hand. Finally, Sherlock made a show of bumping against John to cover up him stepping on John’s foot. John covered his shout with a cough.

“Sherlock, are you all right, dear? You look a little pale. Where are my manners? You both just got here and I am already interrogating you. John, take my son upstairs and make sure he gets a nap before dinner. I’ll see about getting a sandwich sent up.”

“Of course. I’ll definitely take care of Sherlock.”

He was going to murder the bastard.

 


	3. Help! I'm Dating an Octopus!

He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him inside. The over-eager bellhop greeted them once more and moved to take them to their room. John cut him off before he could give another snappy greeting. “No need. Just give me the bloody key and point me in the right direction.”

The bellhop fumbled with the key and stuttered directions to room 308, then made a show of quickly getting out of John’s way. Good. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with more than one idiot at a time. Just short of their room John backed Sherlock up against a wall and shoved a finger in his face. “What the hell are you playing at? That was your mother!”

“What gave it away?” Sherlock ducked out of the way of John’s thrusting finger.

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, blocking his quick exit. “Don’t you try to be smart with me. Why is your mother here?”

“Why wouldn’t she be here? It’s her anniversary.” Sherlock turned his nose up, giving John the distinct impression that he was being judged for not knowing such a simple fact.

“Sherlock, if you don’t start making sense right now, I am going to call a cab and catch the next train out of here. Might make a stop by the police once I am back in London.” He wouldn’t, of course, but damned if Sherlock was going to know it.

“Fine. Get your hand off me, please.” Sherlock straightened his lapels. “I may have brought you here under slightly false pretenses. Two days from now is my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. This week is meant to be a celebration of sorts. Lots of family. Dinners. Socializing.” Sherlock said the last with a sneer. “They are under the impression that for the past five months we have been in a committed relationship.”

John sniffed. He felt a bit like a bull ready to charge and Sherlock had just waved a red flag in front of him. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because I told them that?”

John made a move to strangle Sherlock, then dropped his hands to his sides. He clenched his fists and thought of nice things: warm milk, puppies, a really nice arse, Sherlock’s really nice-- no. When he finally suppressed the urge to strangle or possibly do something entirely different  that certainly did not involve shutting Sherlock up in a variety of creative fashions, he smiled. It should go on record that Watsons have a particular smile. This smile, passed down from generation to generation, was known as the ‘I’m going to destroy you, but I will be polite while doing it’ smile. John was a master of it. “Sherlock, is there a case?”

“Why would you ask me that?” Sherlock attempted to look hurt.

“Because you’ve lied to me continually since we met two days ago.”

“Lied is a harsh word.”

John sniffed. His smile flattened.

“But an accurate one,” Sherlock continued. “I may have twisted things a bit to ensure a particular outcome. When my parents mentioned that there would be a celebration for their anniversary, I began to plan. For reasons I will never understand, no one gives my brother a hard time about not being attached, perhaps because he is overly fond of cake. What person could compare to that?”

“Christ, there are more of you?” John blanched at the thought of more Sherlocks running around. They’d probably all have the same imperious air about them and be dressed in the same tightly fitted suits. He’d either die from the amount of blood  rushing to his head or the amount rushing out of it.

"Naturally. I imagine by tomorrow evening we will be surrounded by cousins, second cousins, and third cousins twice removed. I’ve never been quite sure what a twice removed cousin entails, but I have been assured that it does not involve the surgical removal of anything. Mores the pity. And amongst all of these wonderful people will be all of my father’s brothers and sisters who are ever so fond of reminding my parents that they do not have any grandchildren and what a shame it is. As Mycroft detests the thought of getting outside of his well-pressed suit, it has fallen to me to be the one who has children.” Sherlock furiously tugged on the sleeves of his jacket. His movements ramped up past agitated and well into angry, overly caffeinated child. “Why do people even want grandchildren in the first place? Is it a sort of shared misery? We had to raise a snotty, disgusting brat so now it is your turn.” A button popped off his jacket.

“Er…right, well ignoring the fact that I am not a woman and won’t be popping out any children-- how about you stop murdering your suit jacket?” John stilled Sherlock’s hands. “So you asked me along because you wanted to head off all the talk before it could get started. And the case?”

“Well, when my parents insisted on a celebration of some kind, I thought it might be nice to have a distraction available. Lucky for me their original plans fell through.” Sherlock glanced down at John’s fingers where they were still tangled in his own.

“You picked this place for your parents’ anniversary party because you wanted to investigate a murder on the side?” John giggled. “Christ, you are crazy.”

“You’re the one laughing.”

“Yeah, well I am also the one of us seeing a therapist.” Now that he had started, the giggling was only getting worse. “So, there really is a murderer on the loose?”

Sherlock smothered a chuckle. “Well, I did promise you a bit of adventure.”

“Fair enough. So, if it isn’t the widow, who is it? You must have theories.”

“Plenty, but I believe in observing the facts before making a final judgment.”

“Right because you don’t want to look like a fool if you go accusing the butler.” John grinned.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why on earth would the butler kill anyone? He has nothing to gain from it.”

John studied Sherlock’s face. Dear god, the man was serious. He had no idea that John was making a joke and that made it even funnier. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He was quickly learning that Sherlock was an odd mix of brilliance and absolute cluelessness. He added it to the slowly growing list in his head: _Methods of murder-- infinite. Murder mysteries--nonexistent_. How someone could be so fond of mystery and intrigue and know nothing about the genre was beyond him. When the urge to laugh finally receded, he spoke once more. “Fine. Not the widow. Not the butler. My money is on the bellhop. He was awful twitchy.”

“He would have been all of ten years old when the first death took place.”

“Well, everyone has to start somewhere. Maybe he’s a prodigy.”  A laugh threatened to make a dash for it past John’s lips.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You are laughing at me.”

“No.” John schooled his features. “Definitely not.”

“And to think you were just angry about lying and there you are doing it yourself.” Sherlock’s face fell and, to John’s horror, a tear slipped down Sherlock’s nose. “I should have known you’d be like the others.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Shouldn’t have laughed.” John awkwardly patted his arm. Should he hug him? That would be odd, wouldn’t it? John moved to lean in and suddenly Sherlock was no longer crying.

“My god, you really bought that.” Sherlock grinned. “Amazing. One little tear and you go from wanting to throttle me to wanting to hug me.”

“I wasn’t going to hug you.” John reeled back and hid his hands behind his back as if Sherlock were suddenly a very large and very hungry shark.

“Oh really? So that wasn’t your concerned face?” Sherlock’s lip quivered. “Oh please, John, tell me you care for me. Tell me that our relationship hasn’t been all a lie.” Tears clung to his lashes.

“You bastard. If it wasn’t for the fact the first one happened ten years ago, I’d say you’re the one going around murd--” Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him. Or at least it was an attempt at a kiss. Sherlock kissed with teeth and force and clung to John with too many limbs. It was a bit like being kissed by an angry squirrel. It was all rather disappointing, because Sherlock had lips made for kissing, if he would just use them.

“Sweetpea! Darling, where have you got off to?” A cheerful voice rang out from the stairwell and was soon followed by its owner. In between being grappled, John saw Barbara Simmons. Her greying hair was tied back in a fierce bun which clashed strangely with her round and cheerful face. Right now she looked rather scandalized.

Sherlock spun them around and pressed John hard against the wall. John’s head was only saved from impact by Sherlock cradling it. Once again, John was reminded of Sherlock’s ridiculously large hands and with Sherlock pressed this close, John felt small. It wasn’t a bad feeling, more like Sherlock was keeping him grounded, keeping him tethered. It felt… well, it felt safe, which was an odd sensation when someone is busy trying to devour your tongue.

“Oh, goodness! Apologies, gentlemen.” She cleared her throat pointedly and Sherlock finally pulled back and grinned shyly at her.

“Oh!” Sherlock blushed. “Sorry. John sometimes gets a little eager.” He didn’t pull away from John, but he made a go of trying to appear appropriately chastened. “Um, was there something you needed?”

“I was looking for my dog. Obviously, she isn’t up here.” Simmons eyed John for a moment and then smiled. “If you happen to see her, ring the help, would you? I hope you two have a lovely stay.” With one last glance, she disappeared back down the stairs.

Sherlock took a quick step back and stared after her. “Well, that was…”

“Bloody awful.” John wiped his chin. “Is that how you usually kiss people?”

Sherlock stiffened. “I was providing a distraction so she wouldn’t notice you shouting about a murder.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Right because ducking into our room until she was gone would have been too much trouble.” To illustrate, John pushed the door open next to him and gestured.

“But we made an impression.” Sherlock straightened his jacket and walked into their room. John followed him.

“I’ll say. Doubt she will be forgetting our faces, which is going to make poking around a little difficult.”

“Please. We want her to be looking at you. The more she is looking at you, the less inclined she’ll be to notice me poking around.”

John shut the door and finally looked around the room. Expensive furniture made to look rustic decorated the room. A large bed rested against one wall and hanging above it was a large painting of a hideous dog. It managed to give the appearance of staring both at John and at the wall opposite it. One tooth poked out of its mouth, tugging its jowl upward. It was impossible to tell what breed it was, but John was sure it had papers that proclaimed it was of royal pedigree. Nothing had a jaw like that wasn’t royal. He was going to have nightmares with that thing hanging over the bed. Speaking of which.

“There’s only one bed.” John pointed with his cane.

Sherlock unzipped the garment bag on the bed. “We are supposed to be a couple. Besides, I rarely sleep and the bed is big enough for five people.”

“I mostly worried about two people right now.” John shrugged off his winter coat and hung it on the post next to the door. The room was cool now and he imagined that at night, it would be chilly. At least there were plenty of blankets and a fireplace.

“You aren’t wearing that to dinner, are you?” Sherlock curled his lip.

“What’s wrong with what I am wearing?” John looked down at his clothes. Granted he wasn’t the best dressed person in the room, but there was nothing wrong with the shirt and tie he had picked out.

“At least change shoes.”

“Sherlock, you do realize I am not actually meeting your parents, right? If they don’t like me, it’s not the end of the world.”

Sherlock flipped open John’s suitcase and began to root around in its contents.

“Oi! That’s my bag.”

Sherlock froze, hand still buried in clothes. “Oh.” His hand closed over something and his face brightened. “Oh, John, really?”

“Christ.” John ducked his head.

“I suppose I should have known you would have one, but still I am surprised you thought to bring it along. I’m flattered.”

“Just… put it back where you found it.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve got to handle one.” Sherlock pulled John’s gun out. “Not your service weapon, but one like it. You must really think we will get up to something dangerous to bring this along. Pity. It’s not loaded.”

“Of course it’s not loaded! Just what we need-- the cab hitting a bump and the thing going off. It’s not a toy, Sherlock.” John tugged the weapon out of Sherlock’s hand and buried it back in his suitcase.

“You could always bring it to dinner. Maybe shoot the roast duck.”

 

* * *

 

John did not bring the gun with him, sadly. Instead he brought his best jacket (an ugly brown affair) and his cleanest shirt. For all of Sherlock’s dreading of sitting down to dinner with no buffer between them, by the end of it he found himself wanting to linger over dessert. He had feared that John would give them away or perhaps even be standoffish. John was thorny, Sherlock was learning. He had a temper, but he was also capable of winning people over with a small smile. He was a mystery and Sherlock grew all the more infatuated with him.

The dinner went surprisingly well. His mother and father had been friendly and since Mycroft hadn’t yet arrived, Sherlock hadn’t had to deal with his incessant snooping. Though he wasn’t the greatest actor, John had a way of putting people at ease. He wove kindness in between gentle jokes and smiled as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Sherlock envied him, and he was beginning to wonder if his parents didn’t like John more than they liked their own son.

By the end of the dinner, Sherlock barely could keep his feet still. He couldn’t understand all the niceties, all the subtle ways people got to know each other. He could read people, of course he could, but he had never figured out how to get people to like him. Criminals were far easier to dupe. Give him a few seconds and he could convince nearly anyone of a story. John had even bought the fake tears earlier before he had dropped the act. But actually conversing with someone as himself? Impossible. No one could keep up with him and few tried.

Except John. Granted when they had first spoke with each other, Sherlock had been pretending to be someone else. He had been intrigued by Stamford’s description of his friend. What at first was supposed to be just a bit of snooping (after all, he could use a person to share the rent) soon became daily talks. The lines between Sherlock and Emily began to blur and before too long he found himself conversing with John as just Sherlock. It’s what finally convinced him to arrange a meeting. If he could handle an online encounter with Sherlock, surely John was something special, something worth his time. And he had been right. At first glance, nothing about John stood out. He was completely plain in most regards and easily forgettable.

John stretched next to him on the bed and patted his stomach. “God, I don’t think I’ve eaten that well in months. Keep that up and I won’t be able to fit into these trousers.” He yawned. “Think I could fall asleep just like this.”

“Yes, well, I am sure you lost a good deal of weight while recovering. It probably wouldn’t hurt to put some back on.” Sherlock slipped his shoes off and worked his toes into the carpet. “You were good with them. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well they made it easy on me.” John scratched his stomach and eyed Sherlock lazily. “They are good people, Sherlock. Think you are overselling their eagerness on having grandchildren.”

“It’s not them I am worried about. You haven’t met the rest of the family yet.” If he had brought anyone else, he’d be worried about his extended family eating them alive. Not John. John had already proven himself invaluable.

“Yeah, well if they’re as terrible as your parents, I think I can handle it. The worst your father dished out was who killed Lucy on EastEnders.” John yawned and tugged at the blankets until they suited him. “You staying up?”

Sherlock checked his phone. It was only half past ten, but he supposed John was used to keeping a regular schedule. Skipping sleep when he didn’t have to must seem foreign to John. Soldiers and doctors valued any nap they could get. “Yes. For a bit anyway.”

“Right.” John hesitated before turning off the bedside lamp. “Sherlock, just so you know--”

“Yes, I know not to touch you if you have nightmares.” Sherlock averted his gaze, acting as if the exchange was as casual as discussing what was for dinner. “Good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

The light went out and Sherlock heard John settle. Soon the room was punctuated with nothing more than John’s slow breaths and the popping of the logs in the fireplace.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come poke me on tumblr at UrbanHymnal. :)


	4. Braiding Each Other's Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait on this one. I was consumed first by mid-terms and then by the flu. Enjoy some bed sharing and a good, proper kiss, and feel free to come say hello to me over on tumblr. I go by the same nick over there as I do here.

Sherlock failed to resist the siren song of the bed for long and, with careful movements as to not wake John, he settled on the mattress close enough to feel the heat of John’s skin, but not touching. It’s strange, he thought. He’d never been one for simply staying in bed. He’d rather be up and doing things, but the quiet puff of John’s breath and the way his face relaxed in sleep was hypnotic. He allowed himself the luxury of tracing John’s wrinkles with his eyes. Perhaps it was inappropriate to stare; John would be irritated by the invasion of his privacy, surely, but Sherlock had never been one for appropriateness.

Soon, his eyelids drooped, tugged down by the weight of a long day. He dreamt of nothing concrete, simply the smell of cheap soap, freshly starched shirts, and sunlight warming skin until it was golden. It’s a calming dream, a steady one. He lingered in the dream, letting himself get lost in its warm cocoon, but when he finally woke, the room was still dark. John was no longer stretched out on the bed next to him. Instead, he was standing over Sherlock, back straight and head cocked.

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. “John?”

“Soldier, why is there a giraffe in the operating room?” John’s voice was thick with sleep, but still managed to come out military-sharp.

A fair question. Sherlock quickly glanced around the room and confirmed that one, they were not in a operating room, and two, there was a comforting lack of giraffes. He blamed the recent attack of sleep for the fact that it took him so long to figure out both. John could be very convincing at times. Sitting up, he studied John. It had been obvious since the moment he first began talking to John on the internet that John had trouble sleeping, but walking and talking in his sleep? This was new information. It was absolutely fascinating. He could study John this way for ages, noting down every odd phrase, provided John didn’t do anything to hurt himself. First, he needed to test how aware John was of the world around him. “Because we needed something to hang the bags from. Sir.”

John’s face twisted and his nose wiggled. Half-formed thoughts marched across his brow as his tired brain tried to figure out the new puzzle. “Right. At least you got rid of the bloody elephant.”

Sherlock fought a smile. “It took up far too much room.”

John gave a sloppy nod then crawled on top of Sherlock. With a humph, Sherlock fell back onto the bed and threw out his arms to keep John from falling off. Undeterred, John shoved a knee between Sherlock’s legs, reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, then promptly fell back asleep.

That had not gone like he thought it would. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, arms still at his side. John was a heavy, relaxed weight against him. John looked soft, but it was all deception. How anyone could look at this man and not see past his plain jumpers and gentle smile? Lean muscle and hard edges hid behind his affable front.

Tentatively, Sherlock brought his arms up and looped them around John. So many new sensations to file away. John’s body ran hotter than Sherlock’s and his legs were hairier and rubbed pleasantly against Sherlock’s own. It was a pity that John wore a shirt to bed. So much of his skin was still hid away from Sherlock’s gaze. He had barely glimpsed a flash of skin when John had stretchd before heading to bed and in that flash, he noted that John had a trail of dark blonde hair that led from his navel down past the edge of his pants. Sherlock forced down a shiver. Tentatively, he pulled John closer and closer still. John acknowledged the shift with a slightly louder snore. His breath warmed the patch of Sherlock’s skin that John had claimed as his pillow. Was this what it was like to actually sleep with someone? Sherlock would gladly take being woken in the middle of the night by elbows being thrust into his ribs or a little snoring if it also meant John would allow him to be this close.

Time turned to molasses. In the long hours before dawn, Sherlock lost himself in the feel of John in his arms. Once he settled down, John slept soundly. He stayed in one spot and made only a few noises over the course of several hours. Just as dawn painted the walls of their room in pale gold, John stiffened. His breathing sped up and sweat broke out along his nape, where Sherlock’s hand gently cradled his head. Even in what Sherlock quickly deduced was the beginnings of a nightmare, John remained silent. Sherlock quickly removed his hands, as he knew John would not take kindly to being touched. 

John jerked awake with a gasp, then stilled. He balled his fists into the bed sheets and lifted himself up to look around the room.

“John?”

A spasm rocked through John and he turned and looked at Sherlock, eyes a bit too wide. “Where? What?” He squeezed his eyes shut. His tongue flicked out across his lips as he gathered himself.

“John Watson, you are currently in a bed with me, Sherlock Holmes, at a hideous little bed and breakfast. It is…” He glanced at the sun being cast on the wall. “About half past six.”

John nodded, rolled out of bed, and grabbed his suitcase. He shut the door to the washroom without so much as another word. Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to getting up early. Perhaps they would be able to do a bit of snooping around before the entire house woke up to begin their day. After all, the best people to talk to were the help. They saw everything and knew everyone’s business. Nearly as useful as little old ladies. 

As he put on a fresh set of clothes, he heard John thumping around behind the closed door. In short order, the shower came on with the hiss and thunk of old pipes. What exactly were you supposed to do when someone woke up from a nightmare? Sherlock was woefully out of his depth. He had never had to console anyone before.

He sat on the bed and fiddled with his buttons. How long did it take for John to clean himself? Surely he had been in there already for thirty minutes. Was it possible to drown in the shower? He’d have to do some experiments. John was a fit man, so it was unlikely that he succumbed to some as yet unknown illness. John was probably just taking his time. He was a fastidious sort. Years of military service and hospital shifts placed their mark on him. Since there was no rush, he was simply enjoying the luxury of a long, hot shower. Sherlock shifted on the bed. His skin tightened. The room was far too warm. 

And his trousers were far too tight. He looked down. _Damn._ Sherlock furtively placed a hand on his crotch and gave his penis a firm pat. It refused to go down. In spite of him,  it grew harder.

“Stop it.” If his penis had a laugh, it would be maniacal. His hips twitched. _Traitors._ He grabbed a pillow and placed it over his lap. It failed to muffle the laughter coming from his crotch. He thought of his violin teacher: thin, nose like a hawk, incredibly irritable, large buck teeth. His penis thought of John: warm, wet, covered in soap, his hand wandering south to his--

John opened the door and stepped out into the room in a puff of steam. “Sherlock, mind telling me why I woke up with my face in your armpit?”

Later, Sherlock would insist that he did not scream. John would agree and insist that what he did was screech. Either way, Sherlock did throw the pillow at John’s head and yelled (shrieked) in a manly (high-pitched) and commanding (terrified) voice, “Penis!”

John blinked. Faintly, Sherlock thought it was entirely unfair John was dressed when Sherlock felt incredibly naked. They stared at each other. 

Sherlock blurted the next thing to come to his mind. “There was a giraffe.”

“Okay.” John nodded and set his bag next to the bed. “And how are you feeling about that?”

“Goooooood?” His penis snorted.

“Right, well, now that’s settled. I need a coffee.” John ran a hand through his damp hair. “Care to join me?”

Coffee quickly turned into breakfast. John wasn’t one for skipping meals. On the contrary, he relished each and every bite. It was easy enough to reason out the source of that. Durable, sensible clothing that could be patched up instead of entirely replaced; the way he checked his wallet and counted out his money. Years of growing up poor had taught him the value of a meal long before he entered the army. While he shoved forkfuls of eggs into his mouth, he hummed happily. Sherlock tolerated it only because it was a pleasant sound. John had a strange way of making everything tolerable.  

“You going to eat that?” John pointed at a triangle of toast sitting in front of Sherlock.

“No.” Sherlock sipped his coffee dutifully. He had only bothered eating part of the toast because John had glared at him when he had first turned his nose up at the suggestion of breakfast.

John swallowed and gave his stomach a satisfied pat. “Lovely, absolutely lovely. So now what?”

Sherlock quickly stood from the table. “Now, we do some snooping.” 

John fell into step next to him as they exited the house and crossed the grounds. “So, I take it I did a bit of talking in my sleep last night.” 

“Nothing revealing. You seemed very concerned about the state of the animals in the operating room.”

“Well, I suppose that is better than--” John cleared his throat and looked away. The space between them grew, yawning wide before Sherlock. 

Obviously John wouldn’t appreciate a hug and he certainly didn’t seem the type to want to talk about it. So, John needed a distraction. It would need to be something that would balance the scales, something that left John feeling less vulnerable. Ah, of course. Simple enough. He would confide in John and all would be well again. Sherlock’s mind skipped over possibilities. He fumbled for a moment then steeled himself. “You are the first person I have kissed.”

John stopped short. “Pardon?”

“You were wondering earlier. I hadn’t kissed anyone before you.” Sherlock studied his nails. Excellent. John no longer had the creases in between his eyebrows that suggested he was recalling unpleasant memories. Instead, he lifted one eyebrow and pressed his lips together. Ah, surprise with a hint of amusement. Far better.

“To be fair, you still haven’t kissed anyone.” John bit back a giggle.

“That is entirely unfair. I was sharing something with you when you were feeling poorly. This is what people do, isn’t it?” Sherlock flipped up his collar.

“Fine, fine.” John schooled his expression. “Well, it’s not that hard. Little less teeth and spit. Little more letting the other person lead.”

Sherlock stepped towards John.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” John held up his hands. 

“Practicing. Obviously. If we are going to be pretending all week to be a couple, we don’t want to look like we’ve never kissed before.”

“Who said there had to be kissing? You know, there are other ways of showing intimacy.”

“Such as?”

John worried his bottom lip. “Holding hands.”

Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s. “I believe we’ve covered this one.”

“Yeah, well, don’t try to break my hand this time.” John gave his hand a soft squeeze. “And there is how people look at each other. Like that person is the only person in the room.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Drivel.”

“Still true, though.” John smiled. “Then there is touching.” John leaned a bit into Sherlock’s space. “Personal bubbles don’t exist as much. Lots of casual touches. Watch a happy couple some time. They’re aware of each other, even when they aren’t sitting next to each other.” John let go of Sherlock’s hand, letting his fingers linger for a moment on Sherlock’s sleeve, then placed his hand on Sherlock’s lower back and rubbed a neat, tight, firm circle there with just a thumb. Sherlock’s tongue attempted to escape down his throat, which was entirely unfair as John’s tongue seemed to be just fine.

John circled to the front of Sherlock, his touch leaving a fire in its wake even through the layer of clothes Sherlock was wearing. John didn’t seem to be affected in the slightest. How was he not also burning away to nothing but ash? “But then, when they think no one is watching, the touches become a little more intimate.”

“Oh?” Sherlock congratulated himself on his ability to form monosyllabic words, even though there seemed to be no blood left at all in his head.

“Yeah.” John licked his lips. “Keep your octopus arms to yourself this time.” 

“I do not have octopus arms.” Sherlock frowned.

“Hush.” John tilted his head up, cupped Sherlock’s jaw, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. 

Bees buzzed under Sherlock’s skin. Mindful of his limbs, he leaned forward so John no longer had to stand on his tip toes. John’s fingers snaked into his hair, pressing Sherlock closer to him. He nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip then drew back. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. When had they closed? 

“Usually the other person takes part in the kiss.” A shy grin lit up John’s face.

“Ah. Perhaps another go, then? We need to look convincing.”

John licked his lips. “Right.”

This time Sherlock met him in the middle. He let one hand flutter to John’s lapel and the other fell to John’s waist. He prided himself on being a quick learner, but in this he felt woefully overwhelmed. It was so basic, just skin against skin, and John’s lips fit perfectly against his own. But that perfection was confounding.  Kissing John was like solving a triple murder while high. His entire body felt too warm, too cold, too everything and he was barely kissing John at all. If there were less clothes, he might very well explode. It was impossible to be calm. Normal people in their normal, boring lives did this regularly, yet here he was about to cling to John in his urgency.

John tilted his head ever-so-slightly and opened his mouth just enough to suck on Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s lapel and, after a moment’s hesitation, he followed John’s lead. He remembered no teeth this time, but tongues were obviously allowed as were lips and-- oh! John’s tongue flicked once into Sherlock’s mouth, nothing more than a tease and a taste. John tasted of eggs and black pepper and Sherlock wondered if he dipped his tongue into John’s mouth how long it would take for his own mouth to taste the same. He would gladly stand here the rest of the day to find out.  

Too soon, John pulled away. A light dusting of pink colored his cheeks. He squared his shoulders and once more he was a soldier. Mission accomplished. “So, you said we were going to do a bit of snooping?”

Gut somewhere around his feet, Sherlock nodded. “Right. Of course. The case.”

 

 


	5. Sweetpea's Cologne for Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone sticking with the fic, even though it has been a bit between updates. As always, please feel free to come give me a poke over on Tumblr at UrbanHymnal.

 

That was… well. It _was_.

Perhaps he should have thought the whole kissing Sherlock thing through, but there had been something about the way Sherlock had looked so flustered, cheeks slowly tinging with pink, as he floundered to find a way to break the silence between them. It made him want to mess up Sherlock’s carefully styled hair and wrinkle his freshly pressed shirt. A lion in his chest roared at the thought of Sherlock’s lips swollen and red from kissing and John being the one who had done it. John wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Sherlock was good looking, hell, downright beautiful, but he was also infuriating. That little bit of John, the part that used to love to egg his friends on and never backed down from a challenge, thought _Oh yes, pushing Sherlock to the very edge could be a lot of fun_.

So maybe he did want to play a game of his own. Maybe he wanted to see just how flustered he could make Sherlock, see if he could throw him off balance the way Sherlock had done to him. And oh god, was Sherlock easy to throw.

John wasn’t cruel. If Sherlock had never been properly kissed before, then John Watson was going to damn well give him the snog of his fucking life.

As Sherlock moved to walk away, an inexplicable emotion flickering briefly across his face, John grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him in again. Just before he kissed him, Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. The lion in John’s chest roared in victory as he sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip and tugged it between his teeth. He had been right. Sherlock’s mouth was made for this, to be roughly kissed until his mouth was slack and red from use. He wondered what Sherlock’s skin would look like rubbed raw from John’s stubble. Sherlock’s breath left his nose in a giant whoosh. _Perfect._ John pulled Sherlock closer, one hand falling to his hip and another fisting the back of his coat, fixing him snugly in place against John’s chest. His cane fell to the ground, momentarily forgotten. What he lacked in height on Sherlock, he (more than) made up for in skill.

He had not, however, counted on Sherlock being such a quick study. God, he was absolutely screwed. Sherlock clung to him, fingers gripping his jacket like it was a lifeline, and growled into the kiss. The sound travelled right down to John’s toes, curling them in his boots. He knew Sherlock was good at acting. Hell, he’d proven that yesterday with his ability to turn his tears on and off like a switch. He told himself, even as Sherlock’s tongue shyly touched his own, that he couldn’t accept this as real. His cock, on the other hand, was quite intrigued. Perky, even.

_Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck fuck._ He pulled away with a gasp. He had always heard the cliche in those god awful romance novels his mother had read of ‘tongues fighting for dominance’, but damned if he wasn’t eager to show Sherlock exactly who was in charge. He refused to be tricked again. If Sherlock was so eager to play, then John wasn’t going to be just a piece in his game anymore. He was going to be an active player.

Once he got rid of his ridiculous hard-on.

“Right. Think that’s enough practice,” John said, soothing the sudden rough edge of his voice. He fixed his jacket, then knelt down to pick up his cane.

He gave Sherlock a chance to move a bit ahead and then tried to shift in his jeans without screaming to the world _yes, hello, I have a giant knob and it is currently thinking about this curly headed git’s arse._ Which he had seen in very thin pyjamas just a few hours ago.

“Why are you walking so funny?” Sherlock had stopped just up ahead and was considering him with a frown.

John quickly looked down. The front of his jeans was, blissfully, hidden for the most part by his coat. _At ease, soldier._ “I always walk like this.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Yes, well.” John cleared his throat. _Don’t say third leg, don’t say third leg, don’t say--_ “My leg.” He tapped the side of his boot with his cane.

Before Sherlock could continue his study, they were interrupted by a small cough. John jerked his head to the side. Christ, they had had an audience. The cough sounded just like--

“My goodness, you two certainly put on quite the show.”

\--Ms Simmons. John barely bit back a groan. The woman was going to think they were a pair of nymphomaniacs, which Sherlock didn’t seem to care about because he was currently smiling widely. He probably thought it was hilarious.

Before John could stutter out an apology (again), her dog charged forward, tiny legs propelling it forward so fast that they nearly disappeared into the mass of its fur. The dog bowled into John’s legs, causing him to step backwards to keep from having his shins destroyed by a furry bullet with teeth. The dog gave a series of yips, each in increasing pitch, before it was satisfied that John wasn’t a threat. It stopped its assault and sat back. One of its eyes pointed the wrong way, giving the somewhat confusing appearance that it was trying to watch John and Sherlock at the same time. It looked a bit too much like the odd-eyed dog painting in their room. Obviously the woman had an affinity for ugly dogs from a certain lineage. It’d certainly win awards at dog shows for the tiny but ferocious class. It glared a challenge at John, the flaps of its mouth twisted over its crooked teeth. John glared back. He didn’t so much dislike dogs; dogs were fine. This, however, was not a dog. It was a rat with papers. The staring contest was at an impasse, neither short and furious creature refusing to back down. John knew he had the upper hand; obviously, he could punt the thing away with a well-timed kick if it went for his shins again.

To show just how wrong John was about being the better of the two of them, Sweetpea squatted, aiming its stream with expert precision onto John’s shoe. Only Sherlock’s pointed throat clearing kept John from jumping back with a curse.

“Sweetpea, no!” Ms Simmons gave a horrified gasp and rushed forward.

“It’s fine. Little rascal just had to go.” John gave a smile that was all teeth. “Good thing I wore the boots rather than the dress shoes.”

Ms Simmons ducked down and scooped up her dog. She gave it a quick kiss on the head. “Oh, who is being a bad girl today? Grumpy little puppy. Yes, you are. You’re Miss Grump Grumps.” She smile. “And here Mr Watson--”

“John.”

“And here _John_ is being so understanding.” She ran a hand down his arm, lingering on his wrist.

“Right. Well.” John stared at her hand. Good lord, she didn’t waste any time. Shouldn’t Sherlock be jumping in? He darted a glance at him. Sherlock was paying attention, but he seemed more interested in the dog than the fact that Ms Simmons was laying her charm on a bit thick. “Sherlock and I need to get going. We have a few errands to run, don’t we?”

“Oh goodness. Where are my manners? You two have a lovely day.” She smiled shyly at John once more then slowly walked past him. Just as John turned toward Sherlock, he felt the unmistakable pinch of eager fingers on his arse. His eyes went wide and his eyebrows tried to merge with his hair line.

Sherlock gave a grin that would have given the Grinch a run for his money. “Well, she certainly seems to like you." 

“Christ. She just pinched my bum.” John ran a hand over his backside. The woman was hiding raptor talons somewhere.

“Oh, I meant the dog.” Sherlock tried to smother his grin, but only managed to succeed in making himself look something akin to a constipated turtle. 

"Sherlock." 

"Well, we were hoping that Ms Simmons would take an interest in you." Sherlock finally managed to hide his grin. 

"Yeah, well my bum would have preferred if she took a more subtle approach. As would have my shoe." 

 

* * *

 

 

John tossed the scrub brush aside and tugged his boot back on. It took a bit of wiggling and bouncing and he was certain he heard Sherlock give a quiet huff of laughter, but he was a soldier, damn it, and he wasn’t going to be the butt of a joke. “Never going to get the smell of it out.”

“I didn’t take you to be so fastidious about such things.”

“Oh yeah, because I love smelling like dog piss.” John had been covered in all sorts of filth; years of serving as a military doctor had all but ground out his disgust of bodily fluids. Human bodily fluids. If he wanted to get up close and personal with a dog’s nether regions, he would have gone to veterinary school.

Sherlock looked at his watch. “Strange. You usually don’t get this grumpy so soon after a meal. Should I have someone fetch you a snack or do you need a lie down?”

“Was that a crack about my age?” Of course, Sherlock would be keep track of his moods in relation to food and time; he’d probably been doing it since they started chatting online. No wonder 'Emily' always popped up with a message right after lunch.

“I thought more of a comment on behavior, given the recent bouncing up and down, but I suppose you are a few years older than me and not as fit--”

“Shut up.” A laugh built up in his chest. Sherlock was a complete git, but at least he kept things interesting. He could be sitting back at his flat with nothing to do. Instead, he was standing in a luxurious lavatory (and who honestly decorates a lavatory like they are expecting the queen to pop in?), with one soaking sock, a stinky boot, and a grin that refused to stop blooming across his face.

“Or what? You’ll have a go at me with your cane?” Sherlock took a step back out of arm’s reach.

“Or I’ll show you the meaning of fit.”

“Terrifying.”

A laugh floated in from the hallway, quickly followed by an unfamiliar head peeking around the door frame.

“Are you sirs needing any help with anything? I could hear the shouting from the kitchen.” She was young, no later than her early twenties, and small. John had missed her entirely during his ranting. He supposed aristocrats liked the help to blend into the background; this maid managed to blend in with admirable skill.  “Had a bit of a run in with Ms Simmons’s dog?”

“Lovely pooch.” Sherlock sneered.

The maid laughed again. “Yeah, Sweetpea has a bit of a bladder problem. And a biting one. And a barking one. Really just a problem all around.” She schooled her expression. “I mean, she’s a sweet little thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

John gestured to his wet shoe. “Yeah, I can see that. She just really leaves her mark on you, doesn’t she? Won’t be forgetting her any time soon.”

She wrinkled her nose. “She’s like that. God, Mr Humphrey hated her.”

The name pinged something in John’s brain. Sherlock shifted his weight and leaned against the sink, feigning only passing interest. He gave Sherlock a quick look then turned back to the maid. “Humphrey?”

“Oh yes, Ms Simmons’s second husband. He had a temper on him. Always shouting and slamming doors. If it hadn’t been for Daniel, I think Mr Humphrey would have taken to throwing things at us.”

“Daniel?”

“The groundskeeper, John. Do keep up. Believes himself to be a bit of a police officer.” Sherlock snorted. “Delusions of grandeur.”

“Yeah, well, we needed the security. Daniel might be a bit off, but he watches out for us girls. Especially when it came to Mr Humphrey. The bastard.” She blushed and cleared her throat. “May he rest in peace, of course.”

“Of course.” John nodded.

She scrunched up her nose in distaste, then leaned in, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Can’t say any of us were too sad to see him go. Half the staff was ready to celebrate when they heard he kicked the bucket. The other half was too busy pretending to be sad for Ms Simmons. She has rather terrible taste in men.”

John grimaced in sympathy. “How long have you worked here…?” He paused, waiting for her to provide her name.

“Addison. And I’ve only been in Ms Simmons’s employ for the past three years. But my gran worked here for a long time. She came on back when Ms Simmons was a little girl.” She puffed out her chest. “Longest employee to stick with the Simmons family. Gran made sure I got on the staff before she retired. She still helps out with things here and there, bit of gardening. Bit of cooking.”

“Sounds like a truly lovely woman. So devoid of anything in her life that she feels the need to--”

“Right! Sherlock and I were just going. Nice talking to you, Addison.” John grabbed his cane with one hand and Sherlock’s sleeve with the other and frogmarched them both back outside. Once they were out of earshot, John released Sherlock’s arm. “Christ, you don’t have a filter, do you?”

Sherlock rubbed at his wrist. Even now, he didn’t look the least bit apologetic; he was more offended peacock than scolded child. “I was simply stating a fact.”

“Sometimes facts really aren’t the way to go. And did you ever think that her grandmother liked the job? Some people do things for hobbies. They don’t need to be paid for it or anything, but they do it all the same because they enjoy it. Surely, even you have hobbies.”

For a moment, Sherlock looked chagrined. “Ah.”

John thought of Sherlock and his violin. He hadn’t got the chance to hear Sherlock play in person, but he knew that at least that bit from Emily’s profile had been true. Music sheets scattered about Sherlock’s flat showed a mind always in motion, always composing. John couldn’t read music, but all the same, he tried to imagine the sort of songs Sherlock would be prone to playing: something fast and angry to mimic the way his thoughts were always speeding away, never stopping to rest. Sherlock didn’t seem the type to share his music, though.

“So now what? Daniel?”

“Hmmm… I think a peek into his work shed would be in order.”

 

* * *

 

The shed was most definitely locked. Several times. A heavy padlock just out of John’s reach adorned the door, followed by a deadbolt a waist height, and finally yet another padlock towards the bottom. Either there were golden rakes and diamond-encrusted pottery beyond the door or Daniel fancied himself as someone who would survive an apocalypse. Probably a bunker full of canned beans and coffee eagerly awaited the day zombies walked the earth. Even the small window was covered in chicken wire and a tarp to block out any prying eyes. “That seems...excessive.”

“Yes, well, our Daniel does so love to make sure things are nice and secure.” Sherlock pulled out a slim black case from his coat pocket, withdrew a lock pick, and began to fiddle with the first lock.

“Sherlock,” John hissed. “You can’t just go breaking into things.”

“Why not?” Sherlock continued to fiddle. “Keep an eye out, would you?”

John sighed, then took up a position to hide Sherlock from view. “How’d you know about him anyway?”

The sound of the first padlock dropping to the ground greeted his ears. “Obvious. I saw him walking the grounds last night after you went to bed. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his groundskeeper uniform.”

“Could have just been snooping around.”

“With the way he walked? No. He had adopted the stance of police when they are killing time while on duty. There is a particular gait they have when they proceed from one place to another, which tells me that our dear Daniel once hoped to join the illustrious ranks of the police force. He knows the basics, enough to mimic, but he probably never actually made it to constable, if he even made it out of the basic training.”

“You got all that from how he walked?” John craned his neck over his shoulder and saw Sherlock shrug.

“Easy enough to do if you just observe. Ah! There we are.” Sherlock held up the last padlock in triumph. The door opened on well-greased hinges and Sherlock ducked inside.

John remained on guard just outside the door, but he could easily hear Sherlock shuffling around in the small, enclosed space. “Anything? Maybe a clever little note that says ‘I did it’?”

“Clever? Why would it be clever to leave a note around confessing to a crime? Wouldn’t it be more clever to destroy every last shred of evidence?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well, it is a poor--” The crash of pottery hitting the floor and the clang of metal hitting concrete drowned out the last of Sherlock’s sentence.

“Shit.” John ran into the shed, expecting Sherlock to be trapped under a shelf or buried under broken bits of ceramic. Instead, he was standing just off to the side of said shelf, torch pointed down at the mess as if the entire thing offended him. “Are you okay?”

“Shoddy craftsmanship. I barely even brushed it.” He cast the beam from his light around the shed. “Waste of time, anyway. He didn’t kill Humphrey. Or the other two husbands.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock shone the light in John’s face. “No, I am just making it up as I go along. Perhaps next I’ll go look at the rose garden and comment on how the colour scheme proves that dog is a murderer. Honestly, John.”

“Right, right. Get that damned thing out of my face.”

“It’s not in your face; it’s in my--”

“ _Hilarious_. You should take up comedy. You are wasted on detective work. C’mon, that wasn’t particularly quiet.”

Sherlock kicked a shard of pottery. “Shame. It would have been nice to find something in here.”

“Oh yes, I am sure you would have loved to have found a dead body. Maybe just a head or something tucked in between the bags of soil.” John gave him a grin, then stepped out of the shed. The winter sun blinded him for a moment. He squinted.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice, usually so calm, broke high and panicked.

  
As his eyes adjusted, John saw what could only be Daniel the groundskeeper hefting a shovel like a cricket bat. He had only a second to step back; he raised his arm in a futile effort to block the attack, before the dark blur of the shovel connected with his face. As his vision flared from red to black, he had one last thought:

_Ow ow fucking ow._

 

 


End file.
